The last time that I saw you, August of '99,
I should have had my hammer and a few rusty spikes to nail you on a wall
And use bottles to catch your blood and display you for the neighbors
so they know your time had come.
And I'd drink your blood and feel it dripping down my throat as it heads for my heart.
And as your body sags and the stench rises in vain,
the people on the street are collecting in dismay.
Before their eyes your head lifts towards the sky and that's the last thing they'll remember of you.
You've become a ghost.
You're floating somewhere in between the waking world and a landscape of dreams.
Well it's nothing but dying.
You've got a grenade stuck in your teeth and you're pulling at the pin.
You're an illusion, just a shadow flickering underneath the sun.